


Ours

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John suggests a threesome. Greg ups the game. Who wins?</p><p>Written based on <a href="http://www.millsandboon.com/books/Spice/Sophies-Rogues-eBook.htm">this prompt</a>, with appropriate wording changes where needed. </p><p>Written for the Unconventional Courtship collection. This isn't really meant to go with my other OT3 stuff but I suppose it's not entirely incompatible either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ours

**Author's Note:**

> 1) No disrespect intended. No money made. Characters are not mine.  
> 2) No beta, no britpicker. Seriously, if you are the first one to click on this, you are the first one to read it. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.  
> 3) Oh man. I'm really posting this. I need a bag to breathe in.

Greg handed John his coffee, then took the seat opposite. “So, what’ve you got then?” It was John’s turn to decide on the course of their weekend adventure. Greg’s last suggestion had been blisteringly hot and deliciously naughty. It hadn’t been enough to stop some particularly persistent fantasies, but certainly it had raised the stakes, putting Greg ahead in their game of ‘I wouldn’t have expected you to suggest THAT’. Now John had an idea that he thought would nicely serve a couple of purposes. It would put him ahead in the game, possibly for a good long while. Hopefully it would also put a stop to the thoughts that had become increasingly difficult to resist. 

“You, me, Sherlock. A threesome.” At Greg’s hum of interest he continued his pitch. “It’s not something either of us has tried. And Sherlock is the obvious choice. We know he’s compatible with each of us separately, so that’s a point, and he already knows most of our turn-offs and boundaries.”

Greg leaned back in his chair, draped one arm over the back. “I like the way you think. But I do have an objection: ‘something neither of us has tried’? That’s not exactly true, is it?” The look he directed at John was pointed. 

Of course Greg would remember that conversation. Damn Stamford, anyway. “Oh, come on. I told you we all woke up with apocalyptic hangovers and no memory. You can’t seriously think that counts.”

“You left out in the _same bed, naked_ , and _touching_.” Lestrade counted off the points on his fingers. “Put it all together and I have to say that yes, it does.”

“Oh.” In fairness, John really couldn’t argue with that.

“Are you open to a counter-suggestion?”

“I’m listening.”

“You’ve made your offer on false terms, so I think you should pay a penalty. Do that and, provided that Sherlock is agreeable, we’ll have a deal.”

“What sort of ‘penalty’?”

Greg looked smug. “Submission. You give control over to me –“

“What? That’s it? I do that anyway.”

“I wasn’t finished. You give control over to me, and also to Sherlock. As you say, we know he’s compatible.”

John gaped. Yes, he had allowed Sherlock to take the lead. Sherlock had needed John, and John needed to serve. Mutual need had evolved into affection, attachment, and love. That had all ended, of course, and John had resigned himself to a life of unofficial widowhood, never dreaming that he could find another whose needs fit so well with his own. Once in a lifetime was more than he’d expected, twice was a wonder and marvel. Then Sherlock had returned, expecting to take John back into his life and his bed. Well, he’d had to accept that John was with Greg now, and wasn’t going to offer anything more than friendship. Their interactions became exercises in dispassionate civility. Of course he wasn’t going to take up with Sherlock again, trust him again. Everybody agreed that his handling of the bizarre situation was sensible, even generous. Nobody picked up on the more complicated truth: as much as he loved Lestrade, as much as Greg needed him, there was a part of John that would always answer to Sherlock. He still trusted Sherlock, against all common sense and probably to his own detriment and damnation. He held back because he didn’t trust himself, tried to believe that the yearning would weaken and fade if he just gave it enough time. Instead, uncomfortable midnight dreams had become guilty daytime fantasies of coffee and whisky voices, an aural cocktail of demand and praise. More than once he’d caught himself watching them instead of examining the body before him, chasing wildly inappropriate images of what those tandem hands might wring from his body. He’d never imagined Greg would offer up the very thing he wanted. Well, then, why not? Burn out the longing by indulging until it no longer appealed. “Yes,” he decided. “Yes, I think that will work out.”

“Great. I’ll get in touch with Sherlock, see if he’s game. If he agrees, we’ve got a plan.”

*~*~*~*~*  
The following Friday afternoon, John and Greg arrived at Sherlock’s Baker Street flat. Sherlock himself opened the door. 

“John.” Quicksilver eyes held his for one heartbeat, two, three. “It’s good to see you again. Greg, come in, please.” 

They entered the sitting room in silence, hanging their coats by the door. John looked around. There were no books piled on the coffee table or floor, no experiments cluttering the kitchen counters. A faint scent of lemon oil hung in the air, and the late morning sunshine shone through unsullied windows. Even the mantel was cleared of correspondence, the folding knife nowhere in sight. 

“Don’t look so startled, John.” Sherlock chided “I am capable of basic housekeeping. Neither you nor Greg likes a lot of mess. I didn’t want you to be distracted or uncomfortable. Please, sit. I can make some tea, if you’d like?” 

Greg took a seat on the sofa, motioning for John to join him. “No tea, thanks, but we should all make sure we’re clear on boundaries, limits, that sort of thing.”

“My memory is intact, Lestrade. John likes to serve, to give pleasure and to be needed. Within those parameters he is submissive, but he is not a masochist. You prefer to keep work and play separate, so no handcuffs or violence, but you do enjoy a bit of caretaking and tenderness. I find accessories frankly ridiculous, so we won’t need anything other than lube. I think that covers it, yes?” Sherlock’s eyes had flickered between the two of them during this speech. Now he looked at John. “Do you want a moment? You can change in the bedroom upstairs if you do.” 

John nodded, picked up his bag, but stopped when Greg reminded them that they hadn’t discussed safe words. It was a formality, but one he appreciated. Putting it out there made it clear to all of them that their use was expected and acceptable should circumstances warrant. In John’s experience, they never had, but this situation was new for all of them. “Six words? That’s too many. Let’s just go with yellow/red, yeah?” he told them, and took his bag upstairs when they agreed. John changed quickly, stripping out of his everyday jumper and jeans and folding them neatly away. It was symbolic, this removal of his street clothes. He knew that, knew that neither man was bothered by what he usually wore. But it helped push him into the right mindset. Initially he’d been surprised by how visual Greg was, every bit as much as Sherlock really. Soon enough John incorporated that knowledge into his efforts to please his partner, with positive results. He slipped on a pair of mediterranean blue pants, checking his reflection. Yes, these displayed every bit as nicely as he’d hoped. Over the pants he draped and tied a blue-on-blue dressing gown. A quick comb through his hair and he was ready. Time to go downstairs.

Greg was waiting for him, espresso eyes crinkling in delight at his choice of attire. A couple of quick steps and he had John gathered close. A tentative kiss asked the question, and John answered with a firmer one to assure his willing participation. Greg’s exhale was warm over his cheek. “Kiss me again, John.” He pressed their lips together, slowly opening his mouth, sucking Greg’s lower lip before sliding away. He breathed deeply of bergamot, coffee, _Greg_ , while rubbing his lips over the light stubble on Greg’s jaw. A strong hand pressed against the back of his head, another against his hip, drawing him closer and fusing their mouths together. The slow slide of lips and tongues, the gentle suction and tender scrape of teeth, rendered John incapable of thought. They breathed twin sighs as they pulled away from each other, and Greg pressed a caress to John’s cheek. “That tongue, John. That mouth. So good.” Greg’s voice slid over him. 

Then a second set of hands settled on his shoulders, turning him in Greg’s embrace. “Feeling left out, are you?” John could hear the smile in Greg’s voice.

“Not for long, I’m not.” Sherlock rumbled. Then he pounced. There really was no other word for the way he swept forward and claimed John’s mouth. No gentle question this, but an urgent demand from tugging lips and thrusting tongue. John broke free, gasping, dragged his teeth across the points of Sherlock’s collarbone, licked over the hollow of his throat. He reached up, wanting silken curls under his fingers. But Greg was having none of that. He captured John’s hands and pulled them behind his back, holding his wrists in a firm grip. His other arm hand gripped the point of John’s hip, pulling him backwards toward the sofa. He felt the older man sink onto the cushions before Sherlock took his wrists from Greg, turned him, pressed him to his knees and commanded “Show me what else you can do to him.” Greg reached out and cupped his chin. “My lovely John. I want you to do that.”

“Greg.” John leaned his cheek into those strong fingers, then turned his head and ran his tongue between them. When he reached the tips, he slid two of them into his mouth and began to suck. Greg leaned back against the sofa, but his eyes stayed open, fixed on Sherlock’s face. His legs spread further and one foot hooked around John’s thigh to nudge him closer. John took the hint, released Greg’s fingers, and turned his attention lower. His mouth brushed along the fabric of the pyjamas, breathing a tease of heat and humidity over Greg’s thigh. He heard the older man inhale, felt Sherlock’s fingers thread through his hair and guide him into place. “He likes a bit more pressure just there, John.” Accordingly, John dragged his teeth between knee and thigh, repeated it on the other side when Sherlock’s hand turned his head. “God, John.” Greg’s voice, low and rough, sent warmth rushing through John’s body. He leaned forward, pulling against Sherlock’s grip on his wrists, working his mouth up Greg’s thighs in a bid to make him growl again. Sherlock tugged him back, not by the wrists but with one long arm wrapping around his shoulders. 

“Not so fast; we’ve all night yet.” He felt Sherlock shift, widen his stance. “My turn now, I think.” John’s wrists were released, his arms eased slowly forward. Sherlock’s long fingers probed carefully along his stiff shoulder, though he hadn’t pulled or held him there long enough for strain. 

Greg leaned forward with a tender smile, his hands following Sherlock’s in his own spot-check, then turning John to face the taller man. “Up you get, then.” Hands under his elbows steadied him as he stood, then guided his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He looked up into those changeable eyes, mossy green right now and darkening with desire.

“John.” He felt the rumbling voice where their chests were pressed together. “Do you remember, my John?” 

How could he not, surrounded by that velvet voice, the scent of citrus and mint? John could only nod, then lean back to fit his hands under the tee-shirt, stroking the miles of hot skin. He rubbed the pad of his thumbs over the hardening nipples, alternating light, teasing strokes with firm circles. Sherlock shivered, and John’s body echoed those shakes. His eyes began to slip shut but Greg’s voice pulled him back. “Let’s have his shirt off.” 

John pushed at the top, bunching it toward Sherlock’s long neck. The other man ducked his head, allowed John to scoop the cotton up and over, dropped his arms so it could slide to the ground. John stretched, pressing his hands against jutting shoulder blades, pulling the tall man forward until he could dip his head and lip at a straining nipple. 

“No tongue, yet.” John nuzzled his lips over each side in turn. It was heady, hearing Sherlock sigh and feeling the gooseflesh dance across his skin, but Greg kept John in the moment with whispered praises, his palms riding John’s hips. Sherlock pulled John’s head up, fixed his mouth to John’s neck. Tongues swirled over his pulse points, two voices whispered in near-stereo “My amazing John” and “My perfect John”. Hips before and behind rolled against him in two distinct and familiar rhythms. Breathless whimpers ...his? Someone else’s? He couldn’t tell anymore. When his knees began to buckle they both caught at him.

“John-“

“Easy there, love, we’ve got you. No, Sherlock, he’s fine...just, let’s move this to the bedroom, yeah?”John was glad _someone_ was able to be clearheaded. He felt storm battered, tossed between competing claims of belonging, Greg the storm and Sherlock the shore. Or maybe the other way round? Or perhaps he was storm and shore and wreck together, the other two the safe landing he so desperately sought? His thoughts scattered as he was pulled through the kitchen and into the hall.

In the bedroom, Sherlock leaned against the headboard with his legs spread, and indicated that John should settle in front of him. Once the shorter man was resting against his wiry frame he tangled their fingers together, resting their joined hands against his pyjama clad thighs. Greg slid onto the mattress, gently uncrossing John’s legs and massaging his fingertips over the calves. John sighed and began to relax; Greg’s touch was familiar, comfortable. But the relaxation shattered when Sherlock murmured in his ear. Husky whispers described how Greg would bend John’s legs and splay them wide, stroking over his knees to the inside of his thighs. Was that Greg’s mouth against the back of his knee, or just the power of that smoky voice stirring his imagination? Had his legs been lifted for him, or was his body following the purred instructions without thought? He fisted his hands in Sherlock’s flannel pyjamas, seeking contact and control, but his arms were lifted over their heads and gripped by an agile hand. The other arm snugged across his chest, curving up to press his head against a long, pale neck. The tip of a finger lightly traced his ear, toying softly with the lobe. Sherlock mouthed his hair, murmuring “mine, mine, mine” with each caress.

“Oh, my God, that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Greg’s voice, reverent and dark with arousal, came from the foot of the bed. “My love, open your eyes. Let me see you.” 

Taking a deep breath, John opened his eyes to see Greg regarding him with wide eyes and parted lips. 

“Do you like him looking at you like this?” That voice in his ear, sparking down his spine and settling deep in his belly.

“Yes.” A barely aspirated whisper was the best he could manage.

“I’m going to let go your hands. I want you to open your dressing gown, slowly. Do you understand?”

John nodded once, lowered his arms carefully. He dropped his eyes to his waist and began untying the belt. As it came loose he looked up again, meeting Greg’s eyes with a wicked smile. The older man caught his lower lip between his teeth as John slowly parted the blue silk over his torso. He could feel Sherlock’s erection pressing against him, felt his own twitch in response. He tried to sneak a stroke, but Sherlock was faster, taking his hands and pressing them to the mattress. “Your hands are to stay where they are now.” How was it possible for that sultry voice to sound even deeper? 

Greg was looking over John’s shoulder, making eye contact with Sherlock as the taller man trailed one hand down and back up John’s exposed chest. “God, John, if you could see his face. He loves touching you.” Greg’s open enjoyment was intoxicating. John pressed his feet into the mattress, pushing back into Sherlock’s arousal and twisting slightly. The hard length seemed to scorch his skin even through the layers of fabric that separated them. Sherlock’s breathing stuttered, and he pushed his hips forward hard. Greg’s hands slid into John’s dressing gown, gliding over his shoulders and pulling him up with great care. Sherlock took this opportunity to slide out from behind John, gently tugging the dressing gown away before allowing Greg to lower the compact body onto the mattress. They knelt on either side of him and began to caress his flushed skin, different pressures and rhythms until they slowed, stopped. The bed shifted. He opened his eyes to see that they had wrapped their arms around each other, Sherlock’s fingers grasping Greg’s hair and Greg’s hands dark against alabaster shoulders. They clung together over his body, their legs caging him in his place. Not that he’d have tried to escape the scene before him. It started as a battle for dominance, but the duel soon became a dance. Of its own volition John’s hand slid to the front of his pants, a single finger sliding up and down his length to mark the beat of the pas de deux above him. They swayed together, breathing each other’s air. “Oh, fuck, you two are so...” he couldn’t finish the thought as two sets of eyes were fixed on him, one nearly black with desire, and the other a sharp silver-edged shadow. Greg’s voice was strained, heavy. “Our John is being disobedient. I know you told him to leave his hands where they were.”

 _Our John_. Two deceptively small words, imbued with such depth of meaning that John’s heart stumbled, swooped, soared. Could it really be so simple? As simple as _ours_ instead of _mine_? He tried to look at that idea, tried to examine the different permutations, was interrupted by Sherlock’s husky pronouncement. “Touch us, then. Not yourself, touch us. Now.” Then he returned to hungrily kissing the older man before him. Carefully, John reached up with both hands, ghosting his palms across the cloth covered erections. Muffled groans rewarded him, and he pressed more firmly, setting up a pattern, delighting in the shivering thighs on either side of him. Oh, yes, this...this spiral of longing and belonging, boundaries torn away in the heat of passion, desire, need. This was what he wanted, down to the very bottom of his being. “Ours. Oh, please, please... not mine, ours. I need to touch you. Our Greg, our Sherlock...my Greg and Sherlock, oh ours. Please, let me touch you. Let me have this.” He didn’t try to stop the words that poured from his heart, filled the space around him, around his lovers, hung there trembling and timid, awaiting their response.

The other men’s lips parted. Greg slipped off the bed and began shucking his pyjamas. Sherlock was less controlled, getting tangled in his pyjama pants and hopping comically about. Greg pulled John’s pants down his legs, dropping them to the floor while he rambled “Yes, John, yes. Yes, of course. All of us, all of ours, together.” He pressed his body against the smaller man, hands roving everywhere, sealing his promise with desperate kisses.

Sherlock took the other side. Cupid’s bow lips began feathering along John’s neck and shoulder, gasping out “Ours, yes. Finally. At last.” John shivered, whimpering in his desperation to touch before he completely came apart beneath their hands. Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow, reaching over the tangle of fevered bodies to snag the lube. The cap popped and suddenly there was a cool slick dripping over John’s fingers. “Our John.” A voice breathed into his ear as his other hand was coated. No further words were necessary; he pressed his hands between his body and theirs and began to stroke. He struggled against the awkward angle, seeking a rhythm. Then Greg rolled himself back slightly, swarming up to kneel on the mattress, bracing one hand against the headboard. Sherlock felt the change and forced his eyes open, then mimicked Lestrade’s position. Together they reached for John’s throbbing erection with their free hands, twining their fingers and sliding over him. John followed their pace and reveled in the giving. Focus became an issue as something more complex than desire, more nuanced than pleasure, whirled through all of them. John couldn’t tell where he left off, where they began. His nerves thrummed in harmony with their pleasure, his gasps and their moans overlapped and merged into a single sound. Three hearts thundered together, bodies straining toward mutual fulfillment. Suddenly Sherlock’s release was upon him; he barely had time to gasp out a warning before spilling over John’s hand and belly. Greg went over the edge almost simultaneously, moaning and swearing as he bucked his hips. The sight and sound of their orgasms had John frantically thrusting into their fists once, twice, a third time, the joy of bringing them pleasure driving his own need high and higher. He threw back his head in a silent howl, every synapse tuned to the pleasure being wrung from his body by the partners who needed and cherished him. He rode the wave up, down, knew nothing more for several minutes. Slowly, so slowly, he became aware that he was clinging, cradled between two bodies, his face pressed into the warm hollow of Sherlock’s shoulder, Greg nuzzling John’s neck. Someone’s fingers stroked through his hair, another hand traced lazy sigils up and down his arm. His heart-rate finally slowing, John raised his head to meet the watchful eyes that were waiting for his attention. Sherlock looked wrecked, uncertain in the aftermath. “Sherlock.” He had to clear his throat, try again. “Sherlock, I...I meant it. If Greg, if you...I mean. I want this. Us. This.” He saw those viridian eyes look up, ask a silent question. He waited for Greg’s answer. 

The older man’s voice was deep and hushed. “I’ve never wanted anything, anyone, more than this. It’s a surprise, although...not as much as it might have been.”

Sherlock gave them both the tiniest of smiles. “A surprise for all of us, I think. I admit I’d dared to hope...but the reality...well. Yes.”

Greg gave him a weak swat. “Insufferable know- it- all. Ours, now, though. So there’s that.” John hummed his agreement, pulling the other men against him. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Even a relatively ordinary two person relationship with Sherlock had been complicated, never mind this. But details and discussions could wait; they had all weekend. Greg was yawning, Sherlock shivering, and John felt decidedly sticky. For the next little while everyone focused on practical matters: warm flannels, soft blankets, and who got the best pillow. The last thing John heard before he dropped into sleep, surprisingly comfortable in a tangle of naked limbs, was Sherlock saying “I do think we’re going to need a bigger bed”.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited on 4/19/13 for a really ridiculous mistake of the sort that I HATE making but delight in finding in novels. No substantial storyline changes, just a continuity error.
> 
> Except for a naughty sonnet that I wrote to my boyfriend back in high school, I've NEVER written anything porny ever. There ya go, you just read my first porn. My mother would be so...no, never mind. 
> 
> Writing this was fun, in hindsight. At the time I was doing it, it was really difficult. 
> 
> With regards to human relationships and sexuality, I tend to be of the mindset that when approached with respect and honesty, ‘it’s all fine’. I’ve tried to be respectful and have done a little bit of research into poly and D/s relationships. That being said, I’m not a participant in either and this story was written to a romance novel prompt. In the world of fiction, interpersonal conflicts may be solved by jumping into bed together. But we all know that sex isn’t a panacea for complex and messy emotional stuff, right?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Combine and Conquer (The Pivot Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812475) by [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill)




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